Temperature as high as this pain,
grief: a dialogue now between this sour body.
A sinister talk to my mind,
threads of summer bright,
Yes, understand this poem now
understand the grief behind the back,
the bareback of velvet love,
the river madness,
my body shuddering like a torn piece of cloth
to miss your teeth on my chest,
your breath on my bosom.
Understand this departure, as well.
the first is a spot
through which a night shines
the first is a mouth like a spot
or a spot like a mouth,
this confusion happens to me through the atrocities of words,
the glass beads
of unspoken talks
The second is blurred.
a garage of broken lives.
mark of a garden path,
pale figures of God
The third is the grass
you sit here in the colony of ants,
through retractive light,
hopping and walking across centuries,
you become like a shape- shifter,
a brilliant one.
the fourth is an Elegy
through the thick of fabric
of the night, you become so bright
suddenly, not any sad song now.
And you slip from the corners of your mouth,
slipping like an elegy
slipping like a song
Cities are of no one
and I too have no place.
Partially inspired by-`Agnes Nemes Nagy
Pain surrounds my tongue in different ways
through a concave tesseract, if you understand.
Pain separates my body from my head
for my head would then splinter,
circling through bare-skinned hands.
My limbs cry each night thinking of dried grief,
the air is not religious.
A needle pointing south and a needle pointing at my mulberry sigh.
Pain divides my grief often
Division like hatching death like a stone,
the wet color on the edge of the skirt.
In the wrinkle of my face (that I assume)
a shadow sets like a drunkard, a drunkard thick & erected.
i tell myself to eliminate this pain,
the ways are simple.
You run, you absorb, you disappear
or you sit and talk to the empty noise of your room.
The ways are symbiotic,
like the palette of my old vintage books,
the ways are nasty too.
A haystack of doomed earth sits on my elbow.
I say this is my pain, maybe or bigger.
I do not know my griefs, my despair thoroughly
and so I walk to a death Institue in my sleeping hours at night.
I perform an operation there
with the struggle of my warm body.
A warm mess.
I bow my head and think “the weather won’t get me”.
I shall stay safe here.
An old saying I recite,
mapping the distance of my chest to my thighs,
sipping hot tea,
the typical Indian aroma,
the distinctive sniff which makes your crawl your mind,
to rummage through the orange teal box of old photographs,
the box of stoic flushed postcards.
It happens in a minute.
A sky so distant and full of grays.
The mountains from the Space.
Dry leaves of autumn twirling like homes of the Goddess.
the elements are reconciled,
I see as I am the one producing it.
I speak of the stars, running through my epileptic mind.
I do not joke about it, about the elements anymore.
the elements like soil: the river so mighty…and the elements like my limbs
my nails, my earlobes.
i wait for another day.
Another day another moon
another poetic calendar
to turn a page of the horizon
and i sit exactly on the spot of acidic floor
next to my living :
I who wait for herself
to self loathe
to escape into the unprecedented days of summer
out of all the injuries, now
but more brilliant and more eclectic.
Quietly, winter sets in
like a bride so pure,
a porcelain teapot full of warmth,
a dandelion brushing against the skin.
The kitchen lights shine on my bare skin,
producing a glimmer of my mind.
The grass is cut short. Precise and anorexic.
The air is not the same anymore.
Bulbs of sophisticated figments produce jasmine in cold.
There is no other way for us to gulp a wound here,
the pain may be stuck like a pendulum inside.
Winter germinates other chills in mind, often
into me, an evening of inked breath.
The fission of music
getting stuck to my earlobes,
all shapeshifting instabilities of life.
of ordinary life, it is.
Ankle length Winter- skirts swaying across the room
everything at once.
P.S – Sorry for my disappearance also I am currently not at all in a writing sphere, exactly. Please let me know what did you all feel reading this one.:)
I hear it from the shallow bush beneath my feet.
Drop by drop. The noise of silence.
an embalmed kiss of spewing night
an old lady combing the hair,
zig-zag, the ghosts on the staircase,
often too blatant.
I sometimes think
and sniff the ink of other poets,
the others; who wander in lonely nights,
coughing the dust of clandestine tales,
the saucer with the spilled tea,
the thick frame
and the spoiled tunics,
too much I see for it blinds me,
This noise corrupts my hands and bones,
an illusion of reality, such a blunder to occur.
The noise sits in my chest,
fidgeting with the mind, often.
It does not leave,
it stays like an early rain,
too empty yet beautiful.
Read my latest published work here.
Between the waves and trees